


Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Don't copy to another site, M/M, gingerbread men, holiday surprises, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21939586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: Mycroft witnesses something so catastrophic when he visits Greg's office just before Christmas that he has no choice but to take matters in hand himself...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 65
Kudos: 344
Collections: Mystrade Holiday 2019





	Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice

“Ah, Detective Inspector, I wonder if you have a moment to discuss…”

The thing hanging out of your mouth.

“Oh! Mwr. Hlmnsz! Uhhh… hrld urn…”

“Do take your time, Detective Inspector, and… chew thoroughly.”

Which Greg did, since what he had in his mouth was ridiculously chewy and even his formidable teeth were going to need a moment to successfully render it into swallowable condition.

“Sorry. Just having a taste of these biscuits I bought my mum. She loves a bit of gingerbread and I’m seeing her tomorrow, so I thought a little holiday treat would give her a smile.”

Mycroft’s rictus of shock was broken by only a single word.

“No.”

“What?”

“You purchased those from… a market.”

“Yeah.”

“Not a bakery.”

“No. There wasn’t one on my way here when I had the idea. It doesn’t matter, though, they’re nice enough for the price and…”

“Nice. Enough.”

‘Yeah.”

“From where I stand, I can see the abject failure of those… things… to satisfy even the most generous definition of gingerbread.”

Greg’s mind ran through the various things likely involved in gingerbread and realized that meant a thoroughly un-Christmas-sprit amount of failure had occurred.

“Oops.”

“And for your mother… I never expected this of you, Detective Inspector. Never at all.”

“I… ok, I admit they’re a bit…”

“Flavorless. Texturally appalling. Riddled with icing that is more closely related to school paste than a properly-prepared sugar drizzle.”

The un-Christmas-spirit failure was escalating! Quickly!

“Really?”

“The aroma of a quality gingerbread biscuit should be evident from here. All I smell is the stale waft of the sack which contains them.”

“That’s not good.”

“Not in any manner whatsoever. Consign those to the rubbish and purchase something acceptable for both the holiday _and_ your mother.”

Greg cut eyes between Mycroft’s glaring face and the clock on the wall, feeling a grimacy smile try to bloom on his lips, as if that might somehow deflect a measure of the glare.

“Uhhh… purchase from where?”

The glare was not deflected. Not even a measure.

“There are suitable bakeries open at this hour, I have little doubt.”

“I do. I have a lot of doubt about that, actually.”

“Then you will locate one at the earliest possible opportunity in the morning.”

“I’m meeting mum for an early breakfast, then taking her about London for some holiday shopping.”

And more glare! There shouldn’t be that much glare in the world! Especially at Christmas!

“You are being most difficult tonight, Detective Inspector. That is most uncharitable of you.”

“No! It’s not my fault you condemned my biscuits to hell!”

“The most culinarily-challenged urchin, who would gladly shovel the most low-quality of sweets into their maw, would condemn your biscuits to hell and, further, hurl a handful of horse dung at you for interrupting their play to do the deed.”

Mycroft had gone Dickensian. This was bad…

“Well, there’s nothing for it now, so…”

“There may still be one option available…”

Greg watched Mycroft stand imperiously, tapping his umbrella against the floor in a rhythmic pattern that the DI hoped and prayed wasn’t summoning an on-call assassination team to bring to a foul end the life of London’s most despicable gingerbread murderer. With or without the hurling of horse dung.

“… yes, there is nothing else for it. Your coat, Detective Inspector. Notify your team that you will be unavailable for the remainder of the evening. I will ensure your superiors are well aware of the importance of your temporary reassignment for government purposes. The car is waiting. Take no longer than six minutes to finalize the day’s business.”

Without another word, Mycroft whirled, his coat swirling in a more sedate, yet sleeker, fashion than Sherlock’s before striding out of the office. Leaving Greg to sit stunned with a sad sack of gingerbread people on his desk and a very clear idea that if he didn’t quickly become unstunned, grab his coat, toss the offending gingerbread bastards at some unsuspecting, but hungry, member of his team on his way out of the building, his head was likely going to be on a pike outside the Tower of London by morning. Which, no doubt, his mother would stand under and scold for failing to notify her about the day’s change of plans and making her put on lipstick for no reason whatsoever.

__________

The ride in Mycroft’s car was a silent one but Greg could feel the blistering heat of Mycroft’s disapproval scorching his entire left side while he sat next to the human blast furnace of contempt. He was so intent on keeping himself from fully immolating into a finer ash than would be found once the Yule log had met it’s fiery end that he didn’t bother to fathom out where the luxury sedan was taking them until it stopped in front of a large, tasteful home in a highly exclusive part of the city that Greg’s younger self would have ridden through on a motorcycle while making rude gestures at all the homes and yelling about fucking the establishment. This was going from bad to worse.

“Uhhhh… Mr. Holmes, sir? We’re not…”

Presenting me to some ultra-secret toff tribunal who took great offense when grand traditions of society were breached, one example being buying Tesco gingerbread biscuits for your mum at Christmas.

“… uh… where are we?”

“Come along, Detective Inspector. We have precious little time and I expect each moment will require full maximization if we are to achieve our ends.”

Mycroft exited the driver-opened door, leaving Greg to open his own door because fucking the establishment didn’t marry well with uniformed drivers holding doors open for you and quickly followed after the taller man who was striding towards the front door of the home like a general heading into battle.

Matters began to click into place when Greg saw the key inserted into the lock, then a straightening of the handsome wreath positioned just perfectly to greet the world with holiday cheer.

“This is _your_ house?”

“Where else would we be?”

“Gingerbread jail?”

“For you, that is very likely the case. It is my sacred duty, however, to see you make amends for your crimes and pay your debt to society.”

Oddly, that was not an encouraging thought. People were executed for very much the same reasons.

“Ok.”

What else was there to say?

“That is all you have to say?”

Apparently not.

“Ummm…. I’m glad for this chance at redemption?”

“Better. Come along.”

Greg had pondered the nature of Mycroft Holmes many times and the condition of his house had occasionally factored into those ponderings. Seeing the real thing, he wasn’t disappointed. Not in the slightest. The man was wealthy, that much was certain, but not everyone with wealth had taste. Mycroft, however, did. In his clothes _and_ in his house. It was a gorgeous thing, but gorgeous in the way a thing was when it naturally acquired that gorgeousness through the innate ability of the person who made it, wore it, designed it, etc. You could spend millions and not achieve this level of lifted-from-a-film-set beauty in your surroundings. Take his own flat, for example. Seriously take it. Burn it in sacrifice to this rich, warm, masculine, old-world-library scented sample of magnificence.

“Detective Inspector? Are your feet nailed to the floor?”

I can see where you might think that, Mr. Holmes, since you’re halfway down the corridor and I’m still standing in the doorway like a nonce with my mouth hanging open while I contemplate burning down my place and relieving the erection I’m getting from seeing yours on your exquisite rug. This is Christmas hell, I’m in gingerbread jail and I wager ten year’s pay that I haven’t nearly hit bottom yet tonight.

“No, just… admiring your house. It’s amazing, sir. The sort of thing I loved to imagine as a lad but through only existed in books, films and museums.”

“Oh. Thank you. I… I am happy you find it appealing. This way…”

It took a sharp snapping of his fingers for Mycroft to finally break Greg’s reverie and get him to follow along until they reached…

“Your kitchen? _This_ is your kitchen?”

It was hideous.

“For now. This part of the house was damaged from… let us say for reasons that remain classified… while I was away on business. Only a few rooms required restoration and the individual hired to oversee the process was surprisingly deplorable at their job, despite a wealth of accolades and awards to their name. I believe they were somewhat eager to ‘break new ground’ with this project and the ground broken unleashed only demons of hell and shockingly ugly wallpaper.”

“It’s… it’s a crime! I bet the original look would make a historian, and interior decorator, weep.”

“Most assuredly. But, a return to grace _is_ scheduled and it shall follow precisely both the original blueprints and photographic documentation of former appearance.”

Greg felt the death grip on his heart ease and blood again returned to his body’s extremities.

“Good. Seriously, I would have curled into a ball and died at the thought of this gorgeous house living forever with this festering boil on its arse.”

“A succinct summary of my opinion, as well. There. An apron. Don it.”

The reason they were here slammed back into Greg’s mind with a punishing force because he now realized the _reason_ they were here.

“We’re baking!?!”

“Obviously. I cannot let such an affront to mankind exist, Gregory, I simply cannot. First, you believed those paste-laden slabs of cardboard worthy of the term gingerbread. Second, you believed them a suitable offering for your mother. Third, you believed them a suitable offering for your mother _at Christmas_. I am astonished I did not require a steadying brandy after that moment of horrifying discovery, but I am nothing if not a man of fortitude. We shall be working there…”

Mycroft pointed to a large kitchen island that gleamed brightly as if the person doing the cleaning was determined not to let a single germ to take root and complete the unholy takeover of kitchen hideousness.

“… Kindly move the fruit bowl, though, if you desire, you may have one piece of fruit to soothe any upset your stomach is experiencing after eating the accursed cardboard slab I watched slither down your throat.”

While Mycroft made quick work of taking down a host of items from his many cupboards, Greg got his apron tied on, admiring that it was a solid, plain professional apron and that it showed clear signs of use, and made short work of a banana that looked to be the perfect level of ripeness for his palate, meaning it was probably seconds from being binned by a man of Mycroft’s sensibilities.

“Oh… you chose the paragon of decay. Interesting.”

Point scored! And it was a banana point, which were worth twice the score of normal points. Might as well make it triple points, since it was a Christmas banana and those was especially special. And especially tasty, too.

“I like them sweet. Ummm… you seem to do a lot of this sort of thing. Not eating bananas, I mean, but working in the kitchen.”

“It is relaxing.”

“I suppose. Not for me, because I’m shit at it, pardon my French. It fits you, though.”

“Does it? Explain.”

Why did you ask that? Seriously, that’s one of the statements you just say ‘thank you’ after or ‘it does, doesn’t it’ or something just as polite and non-committal. It’s the British way, for pity’s sake…

“Well, it’s detailed work to do it right. And takes a creative mind. Patience. The ability to think on the fly when things go wrong. You have to be able to multitask, predict, rely on your intuition… things like that.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am, actually. I had no specific response in mind to my demand, however… I was not expecting yours. It was both thorough and properly analyzed.”

“Thank you?”

“You are welcome. Now, we will prepare the dough. We must make haste as it requires a period of chilling before it can be rolled.”

“You roll it?”

“Yes, though you must do it deftly else the texture suffers and that is not something I can permit.”

“Baking and threats… not what I expected at Christmas, but every year brings new surprises!”

“Pray yours remain limited to these benign few.”

“So far, my luck says that prayer won’t be answered.”

“I was trying to be encouraging.”

“That was kind.”

“It _is_ Christmas, Detective Inspector. One does what one must.”

__________

“Fuck me! Sorry… that is… where do you get spices that strong? Little tunnel right to those warm countries where they grow this stuff?”

“Quality spices are available from merchants who pride themselves on offering exceptional goods to discerning customers.”

“Ok but… these are amazing! I can see, now, why you were upset by the pitiful sack waft in my office.”

“Anyone who valued flavor and aroma with their food would feel the same.”

“Oooohhh…”

“Detective Inspector, remove your nose from the cinnamon.”

“Nooooooo…”

“It is _very_ strong and will sting your nasal epithelium.”

“Don’t care.”

“For pity’s sake…”

Mycroft snatched the cinnamon vial from Greg’s hands, then held up a warning finger, while he drew out a loaf of what appeared to be homemade bread, quickly cut off two thick slices, popped them into the toaster while he retrieved the butter, all of which came together on a plate, with a pinch of sugar and cinnamon sprinkled on for good measure, that was handed to Greg.

“There. Nibble that while I manage the spices. You, apparently, cannot be trusted with them.”

The number of objections Greg had to this plan amounted to naught and fell upon his snack with the eagerness of a hungry dog being presented with a steak. No… there was no steak in existence as good as this toast. It wasn’t possible.

“You made this bread, didn’t you?”

“I did, actually. I generally have not the time for it, but I was graced with such recently and made several loaves as a small indulgence for myself.”

“It’s brilliant. I do get bread from a bakery now and again and this is even better. You must have been baking for years to be this good.”

“My grandmother instructed me when I was a boy. She was a professional baker and, beyond that, had the rather stereotypical grandmotherly love for seeing friends and family continually provided with a wealth of baked goods no matter the season.”

“Well, you certainly did her proud here.”

Greg watched Mycroft confidently measure out spices and move with a grace and ease that seemed both perfect for and at odds with the man himself. Mycroft always presented as coldly professional and terrifyingly competent. Even his smiles felt affected except for the terribly rare occasion something slipped past his guard and a genuine show of happiness lit up his face. In those moments, Greg had thought he’d caught a glimpse of the _real_ Mycroft Holmes. Seeing the man now, he felt certain he’d been correct. There was an ‘at work’ Mycroft and a true person, which shared _some_ characteristics, but the true person was a far more complex and interesting man. Who wore sleeve garters, apparently, except when he’d lost his jacket and rolled up said sleeves because he was in the process of creating something delicious in the kitchen.

“Thank you. When you are done, you may sift the flour.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Oh dear lord…”

__________

Greg was only slightly ashamed that he looked like a cartoon representation of the failed baker with flour on his face, dough in his hair and something sticky dripping down his apron. The lack of total shame was due to the fact that Mycroft hadn’t physically murdered him for his incompetence, though it had been a close thing at times, and now he had a chance to clean up while the biscuit dough sat in the freezer and Mycroft prepared tea.

“Ok… that was as complicated as I expected, but manageable with practice. What’s next once the dough is cold?”

“It is rolled, cut, baked, cooled and decorated.”

The eye Greg cut to his wristwatch was not lost on Mycroft.

“While the dough chills, we will prepare for those steps. The icing will set quickly once applied to the biscuits, so if it is done somewhat last-moment, it is not a matter of consequence. We must simply ensure they are placed in a container where they may lay in a single layer.”

“Smart. I… I’m not sure if it’s correct to say sorry for all of this since it was completely your idea taken from sensibilities I don’t have to start with but, sorry for all of this. You must have had other things to do with your night. Such as sleep.”

“I see little sleep most nights, Detective Inspector and, as luck would have it, have been blessed with no pressing calls on my time. As tomorrow is Christmas Eve day, I predict that will not change appreciably, so if a small nap is in order, I surely will have opportunity to accomplish it.”

“Well, thank you, anyway. It’s a kind gesture. To help me with all of this, I mean. What other sorts of biscuits have you made for the holiday?”

“None.”

“What?”

“I have not done any holiday baking, per se.”

“Why not?”

Mycroft waved a hand about his kitchen and Greg squinted to try and see the hidden message writ upon the walls. He failed.

“Because your kitchen’s ugly?”

“Because I am the only one here, Detective Inspector. Bread is one matter, but it is rather nonsensical, do you not think, to fill the larder with biscuits, pies, cakes and pastries when there is but one person to eat them? Most would go wholly to waste and that is not acceptable.”

“You’ve got family.”

“Sherlock? Have you met him?”

“Funny, but I see your point. He eats nothing for days, then binges on whatever crap is handy. Friends, then. Coworkers.”

“My line of work is not the sort where the presentation of a plate of holiday biscuits is par for the course.”

Greg nodded understandingly and wisely decided not to make note aloud of the fact Mycroft dodged the part about ‘friends’ in his little speech.

“Understandable. It’s a different thing for me, then. There’s always something on someone’s desk for sharing and if everyone doesn’t gain a few pounds just on office treats over Christmas then I’d be shocked to my shoes.”

“If the quality of foodstuffs on offer is on par with what I was unfortunate enough to witness on your desk, then the calories were not only without culinary merit, but poisoned the soul of those consuming them.”

“Harsh. But fair. I just wanted to give Mum a little treat but, yeah, I could have put a bit more thought into it. I know better now.”

“Excellent. And, also in fairness, I cannot fault your intentions, in a general sense. Mothers do appreciate gifts, especially those of time. Do you have your shopping appropriately planned for the day?”

“You plan shopping?”

He’s glaring at me again. Shit.

“Yes. You script a route that will place you near refreshments at appropriate times, avoid peak timeframes for each location, as best as possible, to make the process more efficient and save any locations likely to promote purchases that are weighty in nature until the end of the day, unless you have a vehicle in your possession so you may store you gains in the boot.”

“Yeah, I haven’t done any of that.”

“Must I tutor you in this basic aspect of holiday survival, as well, Detective Inspector.”

“Apparently so.”

“Continue working the biscuit dough out of your hair while I prepare the tea. _And_ acquire pencil and paper. We have much to do before the dough is ready and I have little doubt we shall need every second of it.”

“Ok. Should I even mention that I said I’d see about taking her to see a show or hear some music tonight and haven’t planned exactly what or bought tickets yet, either?”

Greg watched as Mycroft poured the water from the kettle into the sink and left the room for a moment, bringing back a bottle of high-quality, and _very_ strong, whisky. It was going to be a long night and there were times, few in nature, when tea simply didn’t brace the spirit as well as something you could use to set your baking companion on fire, if necessary…

__________

“These look antique, sir. Family heirlooms?”

The biscuit cutters in Greg’s hands were clearly old but made with the care and professional pride one didn’t find with much of anything anymore.

“They were my grandmother’s. It… I cannot say I have used them in years. It is rather nice to put them to their intended purpose.”

“I agree. And I’m honored! So what do I do?”

“Cut the biscuits.”

“You also said ‘roll the dough’ and remember how that turned out?”

With their intended number of biscuits reduced by a third.

“Very well. Watch carefully.”

Mycroft laid a cutter on the dough, pressed, gave it a small, gentle shake, then removed the cutter, a process he repeated with a slightly different cutter, positioned so it cut a new shape with minimal dough wasting.

“You continue on as such until there is no further dough remaining. Pay heed to maximize the number of biscuits.”

“Got it. I’ll take this dough pizza and you take that one?”

“Dough pizza… really, Detective Inspector…”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Greg set about cutting the biscuits, keeping an eye on Mycroft’s work and mimicking his motions as best he could lacking Mycroft’s hands that an artist would envy. Overall, in his opinion, the finished work wasn’t too bad!

“Well… that shall have to do…”

Easily contained under the ‘not too bad!’ umbrella so – success!

“… in any case, do you feel capable of transferring the biscuits to the baking tray?”

“Nope.”

“Neither do I. Watch carefully, however, in case you are called to perform the act yourself in the future.”

“That’s not a future filled with good tidings, I fear. At least for anyone waiting for biscuits”

“I concur.”

Watching the careful maneuvering of the biscuits so they kept their shape and avoided a fatal fall to the floor, Greg again marveled at the man who was taking an entire night to bake biscuits so a stupid DI could make his mother happy. Sherlock could shriek to the heavens about his brother being boring, pedantic, humorless and all sorts of other nasty things, but the reality seemed so far from that bit of nonsense that it was probably living on Pluto. Where they didn’t celebrate Christmas, which seemed an appropriate detail to add given the circumstances.

“The next part is fraught with peril, Detective Inspector. If the biscuits are even slightly overbaked, all shall lie in ruins.”

“That’s dire.”

“It is.”

“I can’t handle that level of responsivity.”

“Nor shall you.”

“I think I can handle the responsibility of pouring whisky, though. Just.”

“Take care. Those glasses are over a hundred years old.”

“I can’t handle that level of responsibility.”

“Pour the bloody whisky into a tea mug, then! Just get one to me quickly.”

“Right away, sir! Two fingers?”

“Three. Anything less at this point is dereliction of duty.”

“Great minds think alike.”

__________

Mycroft stood with his hand over his mouth, watching nervously as Greg’s shaky hands piped icing on a cooled gingerbread man, doing everything in his power not to snatch the piping bag away from the DI because _he_ was actually the one that insisted on Greg participating in the decorating process in the spirit of Christmas and because it would specially please Greg’s mother. That was the stupidest decision he’d ever made in his adult life.

“Is… is this right?”

“No.”

“Ok… is it… ok?”

“I… for a child of three, yes.”

“I’ll take it. Seriously, that’s better than I expected. I have no artistry in my blood whatsoever. I’m not even sure I have blood, at this point. It’s all Christmas terror and sugar panic.”

“Use the adversity as a source of strength.”

“I’d settle for a source of steadiness.”

Mycroft huffed and reached out, putting his hands over Greg’s, smirking that they were actually trembling strongly and steadied the motion so the stream of icing made a smoother line along the edges of the biscuit.

“Now, the details. We shall keep them minimal.”

“I support that. I support the fuck out of that.”

Guiding Greg’s motions, Mycroft added facial features, mittens, boots and buttons, quickly discarding the notion of letting Greg add in further personalization with colored icing as it would surely send the poor man into an asylum for the criminally insane.

“There. That is all you must do. I will tend to a bit of finishing work to make each their own unique individual.”

“That’s kind of you. It’s good to be unique.”

“In that spirit, feel free to vary the basic design you have outlined.”

“That’s dangerous.”

‘It _is_ that harrowing hour of the morning where danger and death prowl the world, seeking souls to torture and reap.”

“That’s very Christmassy, sir. Full of holiday spirit.”

“We all keep Christmas in our own way, Detective Inspector. Some more colorfully than others.

__________

Greg looked at the racks of decorated gingerbread people and shook his head in wonder. He’d eaten the ones that met a tragic icing demise, such as when he sneezed and ejaculated a quarter bag of icing onto one poor bastard, so what remained looked as if they were ready to be set in a bakery window to beckon the customers for their own bite of Christmas goodness.

“These are… I can’t believe this, sir, I really can’t. Look at them!”

Mycroft didn’t notice he was smiling until he felt Greg’s eyes on him and… decided not to stop.

“They came out rather well, I’d say.”

“Rather well? That’s professional work, that is. And I’ve never tasted or smelled anything like them. People would pay loads for a box of these and frankly, I’d charge loads because they’re a loony amount of work. I’ll never complain about the cost of a pastry or whatnot I get from a proper bakery ever again.”

“Sometimes quality and cost do go hand in hand.”

Mycroft’s smile widened as he felt an unfamiliar warmth grow in his chest and in full defiance of norms, he let it grow and flow through him. It had been decades since he’d had such… fun. Harrowing, infuriated fun, but fun, nonetheless. He didn’t receive Christmas gifts, generally, besides something rude from his brother, but this _was_ a gift and one he found he cherished.

Until he looked at the clock.

“Oh dear… what time were you meeting your mother?”

Greg followed Mycroft’s eyes and gasped.

“In about twenty minutes.”

“Your appearance is appalling.”

“And I’m sweaty!”

“This is a disaster!”

“Christmas is ruined!”

“No! No, it shall not be. We have come too far to have this fall to pieces at our feet. Up the stairs to the left. Shower. I shall lend you suitable clothing. The car can be here in ten minutes, which leaves ten to reach your destination. We shall likely be no more than eight minutes late, given the hour and anticipated traffic pattern. GO!”

Greg sped out of the kitchen while Mycroft briskly transferred biscuits to two large, flat boxes he’d acquired to wrap gifts for his PA and mail carrier. They could make do with paper sacks for all he cared now, though. He had Christmas to save and damn anyone who stood in his way!

With biscuits packaged, it was a rummage through his closet for clothes to fit the man busily washing a night’s baking effort off his skin and, with that gathered, a brief check of his own grooming, with fresh shirt and tie to bring his look up to an acceptable standard. As Greg left the bath, towel hastily tied around his waist, clothes were pressed into his hands and Mycroft darted back downstairs to check for the car and gather their coats. Greg was doing his own darting downstairs only two minutes later.

“Ah, Detective Inspector, good. The car has just arrived. Take this, please…”

Mycroft handed over the boxes and opened the door, following Greg after locking it behind them and trying not to notice the look on the driver’s face since, to be fair, someone leaving Mycroft Holmes’s house at that hour of the morning who was not a government drone, MP, foreign ambassador or similar was a singular event.

With car doors firmly shut, Mycroft barked out the address, then sat as calmly as he could manage with Greg’s legs bouncing in nervousness, which ultimately mandated the biscuit boxes being transferred to Mycroft’s lap for fear of shaking their precious cargo to crumbs.

“There! There’s Mum!”

Mycroft glanced at the older woman, wearing a deep green coat and bright red lipstick standing outside a small café that he knew to be an exceptional choice for breakfast. As Greg bounded out of the car to give his startled mother a hug, Mycroft followed slower and more carefully, standing quietly with the boxes in his arms until the hug was completed.

“Where’ve you been, silly boy? I’ve been waiting here ages!”

“You’ve been waiting ten minutes at most, you old thing, and don’t tell me you haven’t been having fun watching the people go by and clucking your tongue at all the young rogues who gave you a whistle as they strolled by.”

“Pish tosh! But you’re right about the last bit. And who is this…”

Mum said that with tone. Uh oh…

“Ummm… this is Mr. Holmes, Mum. He helped me with your little surprise.”

“Mr. Holmes? He’s not got a given name or were his parents feeling a bit fancy when he was born.”

Mycroft had thought his mother didn’t have a sister, but now he was reconsidering.

“Mycroft Holmes, madam. The Detective Inspector is something of a mentor to my younger brother and it was a joy to repay his years of kindness with a small favor.”

“The two of you… Mr. Holmes, The Detective Inspector… it’s alright, lads! I’m old, but not _old_. And I’ve known about Greg for longer than he has, most likely. So, when did you two meet?”

Greg and Mycroft stared at the happily smiling woman and hoped that if they stared long enough and silently enough, the other would take the situation in hand.

The situation found no hand.

“Come on, you silly things! You can’t fool me, you know. You’re wearing his shirt, Greg. Really, that’s romcom stuff right there.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened as he looked over at Greg, who was looking down at the shirt on his body, which was a bit too narrow and long for him and was the same FUCKING label as the one on Mycroft’s back, completely not hidden by the open coat.

“Mum, it’s not what you think…”

“Yes it is and I’m thrilled for it! About time you met someone nice. And polite. And handsome. And well dressed. Now, what did you bring me?”

Lifting the lid of the topmost box, Greg’s mother gave a girlish squeal of delight and removed one of the gingerbread biscuits, grinning merrily as she studied each and every detail.

“These are… oh my, I’m getting teary-eyed. I knew, I just knew as soon as I opened the box that these were the real thing. You can smell proper gingerbread before you see it! And these smell just like what I remember from when I was a girl, which was the last time anyone made proper gingerbread, in my opinion. At least, gingerbread I can afford. You made these, didn’t you? No, don’t tell me, I already know. Oh, I just have to have a bite…”

Mycroft and Greg shared another glance, this one extremely complex as it had to convey ‘I told you so’ on Mycroft’s part, pride on both their parts, ‘oh shit how do I tell Mum we’re not shagging’ on Greg’s part and breathless anticipation in enormous amounts as they awaited the results of the tasting panel.

“Oh my…”

“Mum?”

“I may need to have a sit.”

“I can have an ambulance on scene in under five minutes.”

Greg nodded his approval at Mycroft’s fast thinking, then was joining him in pouting as they were each hit, in turn, by a matronly handbag.

“I’m not dying, you numpties! I’m… these are the exactly the gingerbread biscuits I used to remember! I love these more than I love Greg though, today, that’s not saying much. Oh… every year I hope to find something just as wonderful as the ones my own mum used to make and these are every bit as good as hers. Better even! Oh… and look… I can see which of you did which parts of the decorating. Worked on these together to give this old lady a Christmas surprise…”

Mycroft was too startled to perform any of his tried and true hug-avoidance maneuvers and suffered the long, firm, perfume-scented embrace bravely.

“Our Mycroft is a baker. A true and proper baker. And don’t say it’s not true, because it is. Greg can’t bake a piece of toast without setting the house on fire, so I know who masterminded this whole thing. My Greg’s such a lucky boy…”

The motherly joy radiating off the small woman could have powered every Christmas tree in every city of the world that sported them as part of the holiday. With radiance to spare for twinkly lights over doorframes and threaded through a thousand miles of holiday garland.

“Mum, Mr. Holmes isn’t my…”

“Mycroft, Gregory. Your mother is quite right. Easily time to dispense with such formality, especially given this very happy occasion.”

Greg glared at Mycroft, though he conceded the elder Holmes was far better at it than him. He probably just looked peevish. Exactly like a man who was being upstaged by his boyfriend at Christmas to the delight of his mother.

“Ok, then… formality out the window! Yes, Mum, Mycroft is a stupendous baker and we had a grand time making these just for you.”

“I’m thrilled! Thrilled, overjoyed and if I don’t eat an entire box of them today, I’ll be shocked. Lucky thing you two brought a car for our shopping day, so these can rest inside and be ready for us to nibble between stops. Oh, and it’s got a big boot, too. Perfect! I’ve got loads of things to buy, especially since I’ve someone new to buy for now. Come on, Mycroft, Greg will get our breakfast order sorted while you tell me all about yourself.”

As Mycroft shot a panicked look at Greg, Greg snatched the biscuit boxes out of his arms a split second before one of those arms was linked with a more feminine one who paused only to use the other to snatch a second biscuit and Mycroft was dragged bodily into the café. Looking back at the car, Greg considered the driver’s kind offer, indicated by an opening of the rear door and a quick flick of the thumb in the universally-acknowledged signal of ‘let’s get out of here’ but mournfully shook his head no and simply laid the boxes on the seat of the car, though he did extract one and hand it over to the man in gratitude for the very tempting offer.

Turning back to the small café where he could see his mother and Mycroft already commandeering a table and chatting merrily, on his mum’s part, and looking like a rabbit caught in path of an oncoming lorry, on Mycroft’s part, Greg found himself laughing and feeling rather full of honest holiday cheer. Sometimes Christmas was a shit time of year. Sometimes it was peaceful. Then, there were the times it was fucking ridiculous and your only option was to follow the entire parade of lunacy down the rabbit hole and see where it led.

Somehow, oddly, he suspected it was going to lead somewhere good this year. Somewhere very, very good indeed…


End file.
